


Necessary

by angelblack3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, No Spoilers, Sherlock Mini Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:40:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelblack3/pseuds/angelblack3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally Donovan finds out in a not so subtle way of Sherlock’s imminent return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Necessary

**Author's Note:**

> This was my contribution to the Sherlock Mini Bang. 
> 
> You can find the lovely art, made by the wonderfully talented azureverie, in this link.
> 
> http://azureverie.tumblr.com/post/71879186660/i-dont-know-how-to-put-things-under-cuts-so
> 
> Thank you all, and a Merry New Year!

She finds out on the television. Another Tuesday morning that held all the activity and expectation of an abandoned steel mill, with a paper she hadn’t even glanced at in one hand and a coffee mug with nothing to numb the acidity in the other. Paper tossed onto the table with the others, she pressed the power button on the remote and took a sip of her tar, only to nearly choke on it. 

There he was, standing there on the steps to New Scotland Yard. Steps she hadn’t been allowed near in months. 

Worn out expectation should have told her that when it comes to reporting an unlawful consultant several years after the fact; no matter how helpful he had been or how much she had blown the whistle or how carefully she had scrutinized all of the evidence that had been brought to her attention before the kidnapping, the subordinates will always get the fuck-off end of disciplinary action.

Especially if the subordinate happens to have tits and a cinnamon complexion. 21st Century progress be damned. 

Her first impression was bewilderment, followed very closely by ‘He’s lost a lot of weight’. Which, since his other nickname amongst those who knew him at her old work place was ‘Tall, Lanky and a Massive Twat’, was actually somewhat worrying. 

Her next thought was, ‘God, does John know?’ 

But she sees a faint outline around Sherlock’s right eye. A puffiness and a faint darkening that no amount of makeup can hide from fluorescent bulbs and high definition cameras. 

So yes. He’s seen John. If not first, then at least before his face is plastered all over the London News. 

The knowledge inexplicably eases some of the tension from her shoulders.

He’s been saying something about ‘framed’, ‘disproving false allegations’, and ‘spider’s web’. But what she really locks onto are the words ‘did what was necessary’. 

And that-oh. She sets the mug down on the table before it shatters in her grip. 

Necessary. 

She remembers the days after his death. Remembers the shock that had permeated the offices like a bomb had been detonated in their building. She hadn’t gone to his funeral, hadn’t dared.

She’d meant for justice to be mitigated, not…that. 

She remembers seeing John Watson, weeks after the papers had reveled in the sold out headlines of ‘FAKE GENIUS COMMITS SUICIDE’. She hadn’t approached him then. And she still can’t decide if that was cowardice or respect. But even separated by dozens of people waiting for the Tube to arrive, she could see that the weight he carried on his shoulders wasn’t crushing him, it was shattering him. That the distant look she could see in his eyes as he aimlessly glanced around wasn’t boredom, it was desolation. 

She’d watched him leave, her feet rooted on the platform. And something in her froze when she finally noticed the cane. For one heart-stopping moment, he’d looked her dead in the eyes when he’d turned around. And his gaze passed right through her.

Necessary. 

She kicks her sofa as hard as she can, and curses like her older brothers when she stubs her toe. 

The news has gone back to their anchor, with her perfectly arranged blonde hair and artfully practiced excitement that sounds like concern dripping over every word. The urge to scream still lingers in the back of Sally’s throat, but she doesn’t dare. If she was off of her suspension, she’d throw herself into paperwork with the fervor of a nun transcribing the Bible. If she was still in her dojo, she’d find some ignorant newbie who underestimated her and sweep the floor with them, regardless of her sensei’s disapproval. 

As it is, she’ll settle for whoever the hell has been pressing on her doorbell for two minutes. 

She swings open her door, praying to anything with a divine ear that it’s a reporter, before her breath stops.

He’s wearing the coat, but it smells like dust and dry storage. His clothes, God help him, are actually loose on his frame for once. His hair is cut as short as it was on the television. The black eye is prominent now, the makeup washed off. But so are the dark circles under his other eye that have nothing to do with broken blood vessels. His pale complexion is ghastly now. And maybe his cheekbones will shred through his skin like tissue paper before they have a chance to sharpen gemstones.

Sally had imagined, in the middle of her blind anger, that she would punch the bastard in the other eye if she ever saw him again. Now, he looks like a strong breeze would whisk him back away to wherever the fuck he’s been. 

Hell, maybe.

She stands there in her worn t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, looking up at him. She knows she should feel naked. God knew that Before, he could look like he was stripping you down to your soul and all the dark bits you kept hidden away. But instead, she feels…expectant. 

So she waits. 

And waits. 

When her knees start to feel like they could use a good pop, he says, “I don’t blame you.”

And that is probably the most confusing thing he has ever said, and there have been some good ones. 

"You did what was right. Had our positions been reversed, I would have tried to lock you away myself." 

Oh. Dear. God. This is not happening. 

"No," she stops him as he opens his mouth, "no. I do not want to hear-no.” 

He actually shuts his mouth, which is a first. It’s her turn now. 

"You actually think that I want validation. Forgiveness. From you? Of course I did what was right, you half-brained fucking posh git. I thought you’d kidnapped children. I thought you’d left them to die in a chocolate factory eating mercury while you led us by leashes on a merry goddamned goose chase! I thought you’d been smiling behind all of our backs, after you’d dismissed-no-humiliated me, dozens of times in front of my peers.

I thought you’d been lying and manipulating one of the most decent men I’ve ever known. I thought you were some kind of-of-of comic book supervillain when you’d been posing as a hero for years. I thought you were some unstoppable criminal getting his kicks from manipulating the system. So-yeah, I did what was fucking right. I called you out, I alerted who needed to know. I did what was fucking necess-“

And she stops just as suddenly as she began. Heaving on her front door, she didn’t even realize she’d been poking him in his hard sternum until her finger falls back down by her side.

Necessary.

There’s no swell of music in her head. There’s no flow of apologies that want to fall from her lips. There’s no part of her that wants to shake his hand and smile and say ‘I get it now’.

There’s only a bone deep sigh. An ache in her heart that will take a while to fade. And when she raises her head again to look him in the eye, she sees a man who has sacrificed because of taking necessary actions. And also a little bit of shock, which she takes no small amount of glee from imparting.

She rubs her temples and closes her eyes as if warding off a headache. Her voice sounds steady while all of her insides shake, “Do you want some tea?”  
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “…Yes please.”

Someone’s going to have to tell John that Sherlock’s been replaced by an etiquette robot.

She bites back the hysterical giggle, and steps back inside her flat, knowing the man will follow. Before the door shuts, she quickly wipes at her face.

Two people who know what it is like to do what is necessary share a silent tea.

When Sally sees him again, it’s at a crime scene. John is with him, though always at a three foot distance. She surprised that he’s there at all.

There’s something hanging in the air that tastes like petrol, and Sally watches everyone give her and Sherlock covert glances that need a lesson in subtlety. She takes a sip of her latte that had six syllables in the name, pointedly ignoring everyone. But Lestrade notices too, and tries his best to glare at everyone. An admirable feat, but it’s Sherlock who diffuses the tension.

“If you’re all waiting for me to make some remark, all I can contribute is that Ms. Donovan needs to pick another pair of shoes,” he turns to her, and stares at her footwear, “they do an atrocious job of trying to flatter your calves.”

It feels like he’s set off a fuse that only those around her can see.

“Yes,” she drawls, “because I live to impress you. Also, your time away must have made you rusty, because the killer was actually right handed. ” She nods at the bit of wall the bullet had lodged in, “See?”

And that either satisfies the vultures, or leaves them too shocked to process what just happened.

Sherlock, she could swear on her life, beams at her with honest to god pride.

Then he’s suddenly leaving with a flutter of Belstaff and yelling something about a baker, John’s jogging to keep up with something suspiciously like laughter hidden in his eyes, and Sally hides a small grin behind her paper cup.


End file.
